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Chelsey was the happiest she’d ever been, working at the Nymph Bar.
It had been a long road to get here. She was a pretty blonde girl, and she’d developed her tits early, and so by the time she turned 19 she was already very sexually experienced. She’d learned quickly boys were far more interested in her body than her brain, and she’d fallen into a pattern as a teenager of hooking up with abusive misogynists, letting them have degrading sex with her on the first date, and then having them hit her and call her a stupid cunt for a month or so until they got bored of her.
Chelsey took it as given that she was stupid because she was a woman. She knew that her purpose on earth was to be a life support system for her tits and cunt, and to use her tits and cunt to please men. She got upset when people talked about feminism, because feminism sounded like she would have to learn things – which she was no good at – and have a stressful job instead of just showing off her tits and thanking men for their generosity.
Chelsey’s most recent partner was Dale, the owner of the Nymph Bar. She didn’t remember how they had hooked up – she had been drinking at his bar, wearing her prettiest slut outfit, and then the next thing she remembered she was naked on his bed, her cunt full of his sperm, and he was offering her the choice between drinking his piss or having her tits beaten. He had been delighted when she begged for both, and afterwards he talked to her about his plan for a world where all women knew they were stupid sluts and had no choice about whether to consent to sex. It sounded like a wonderful paradise to her, and she told him so.
He made her an offer that night – he wanted to pay for breast enhancement surgery for her to turn her attractive regular sized tits into large round fake fuckmelons. He’d pay, and having paid, he’d then be the legal owner of her tits. Chelsey thought this was a wonderful idea – she loved the idea of having big fake udders – and agreed immediately.
The surgery had been fast and professional, the recovery relaxing, and now she was the proud wearer of Dale’s big slutty fuckbags. She loved how she looked with them – like a doll or a sextoy. She immediately noticed that hardly anyone looked her in the face anymore, and that was exactly how she liked it.
Dale wanted his new fuckdoll working at his nightclub, the Nymph Bar, and Chelsey happily obeyed. And when she discovered the Nymph Bar’s secret, she almost orgasmed right there on the spot.
Because the Nymph Bar was a complicated system to cause the objectification, humiliation, domination and rape of women.
The process started at the entryway. The bouncers – male, of course – were instructed to let in only girls that were sufficiently physically beautiful and sluttily dressed. All the girls in the queue got to see who was let in and who wasn’t, and those who were rejected got to think about what they could do to themselves and their outfit to be more acceptable next time. The bouncers favoured short skirts, large well-displayed tits, pretty faces, and a flirty attitude.
Men were let in based on how likely the bouncers thought they were to take advantage of a helpless slut.
Each girl who was let in was reminded that entry constituted acceptance of the Terms of Entry, and got a stamp on her wrist. No one ever read the Terms of Entry, as they were in exceptionally small print and displayed at a height well above the average girl’s eye-line. But among other things, they read:
- Girls entering the premises hereby consent to any sexual activity they engage in, including sexual activity procured by force or while the girl is unconscious or under the influence of an intoxicant.
- Girls consent to being monitored and recorded at all times on camera, including while using the toilets.
- Girls consent to drinking or eating any substance, legal or otherwise, that they are given, whether they have knowledge of that substance and its effects or not.
- Girls give permission to staff to use force on them for any purposes staff may see fit, and for staff to deceive them about any matter that staff wishes to do so.
Dale said the legal effect of the Terms was dubious, but dumb sluts rarely knew that, and in the rare cases where a girl complained, being reminded that she had agreed to these Terms often shut her up.
The stamp each girl received on her wrist displayed a cartoon of a naked big-titted girl spreading her legs, and the bar’s name, “Nymph”, was printed below it. It served as a reminder to each girl of what a good girl looked like, every time she glanced at her wrist.
As an employee, Chelsey didn’t need the stamp but she liked to get one anyway. Dale said it was her role model. Once she was inside the bar, she reported directly to Dale’s office. Most nights she would suck his cock until he was ready to cum, and then let him pull out and ejaculate all over her tits. He really liked the bar girls working with sperm on their boobs, and if he couldn’t personally attend to that he’d often invite the bouncers to help. Once Chelsey had rubbed the cum into her newly-enlarged fuckbags you could barely tell, especially in the dim light of the bar – they were sticky and a bit shiny but no one commented. But Chelsey knew. She knew that everyone who looked at her was looking at a freshly-used fucktoy. She knew she was a slut, because she could smell the sperm on her tits and no nice girl worked with semen in her cleavage. She loved it. And she loved looking at the other girls who worked there, who had received the same treatment, and seeing the shame in their eyes. This was how the whole world should be, she thought.
None of the other girls actually wanted to work there. Either they owed Dale money, or he had embarrassing information about them, or some other hold on them. They hated being objectified. They hated working with cum on their tits. They hated the things that Dale made them do to other women. Chelsey thought that the fact that they hated it was incredibly hot.
There were special rules at the bar for how drinks were served to girls – or “bitches”, as Dale encouraged the girls to refer to them. As with most places, of course, drinks for bitches were served with a straw and drinks for men were not. Dale liked this tradition – the straw implied that bitches couldn’t even take a drink properly without help and that they were likely to spill it on themselves otherwise. And indeed, even with the straw, Chelsey saw plenty of drunk bitches spilling vodka down their tops in her time at the bar.
But the Nymph Bar’s process went beyond that. There were several large jars under the bar filled with fine powder. The first jar was a potent aphrodisiac – a female Viagra. It was expensive, but Dale said the cost was underwritten by the Bar’s other activities. Every bitch got a little sprinkle in her first drink of the night. By the time they’d finished the drink they’d find their cunt getting a little moist, their face getting a little flushed, their nipples erect. Their body would start sending the signals it was ready to be raped even if their mind had no intention of having sex.
A bitch’s second drink had piss in it. Dale wanted every bitch who attended the Nymph Bar to leave with piss in her stomach, whether she knew it or not. In a best case scenario she would start to associate the taste of piss with the pleasure of the alcohol, and come to enjoy drinking urine, like a good slut should. But at the very least she would be subtly degraded, made to do something she would never otherwise do just because she was a bitch and she was stupid.
Getting the urine in the drink was simple enough. Some of the male clients who were “in the know” on how the bar operated supplied bottles of their piss on arrival, so that their urine could be secretly fed to their date throughout the night. Dale and the bouncers provided a supply too, to help out. But a lot of the urine was provided by the bar staff girls themselves. Dale trained them to piss in public on command, squirting a little urine and then tightening their bladders again. Their bar outfits involved short skirts and no panties, so they could easily pass each drink between their legs while preparing it and piss into it a little with no one noticing. Chelsey took a special pleasure in watching pretty girls who thought they were independent drinking her urine without realising.
By their third drink, bitches fell into one of two camps – either they were giving in to their instinctive desires and being good little sluts, rubbing up against nearby men and flirting their way to a well-deserved raping… or they were resistant. Maybe feeling something was wrong, or feeling a little unsafe, or just being frigid little cunts.
The good girls got more piss, and maybe a sprinkle more aphrodisiac. The bad girls got a roofie.
The second jar of powder under the bar was a special blend. It made girls tranquil and a little sleepy. It made it hard for them to walk. It impaired their judgement. It reduced their willpower and made them suggestible. And after it wore off it messed with memory so that girls generally had a poor recollection of what had happened to them. In short, it was a date rape drug, making them vulnerable to anything a man wanted to do to them.
Unlikely most date rape drugs, it came with a euphoric high. Even if they experienced a horribly traumatic rape, bitches would remember they had been very happy immediately before it, and associate that happiness with the Nymph Bar. Chelsey saw girls keep coming back to the Nymph despite being raped on each of their previous attendances.
Dale employed a couple of skilled pickpockets who worked the room, mostly targeting girls receiving drugged drinks. They would take the girls’ wallets, phones and car keys. The cash in the wallets subsidised the drugs a little, but more importantly, bereft of their supports, the girls were unable to arrange their own transports home, and would often have to accept lifts from the men, who, whether they warned the girls or not, would often at some point demand the girl pay for the lift with her body.
The bitches got encouragement to get with the program, of course. A bitch who showed bar staff she wasn’t wearing panties got two free drinks. Anyone dressed “sluttier than the bar cunts” got another free drink. (Chelsey and the other bar cunts wore short skirts, high heels and lacy push-up bras, and nothing else other than make-up and jewellery.) Chelsey was always surprised and delighted how many young sluts would flash her their pussy each night for the privilege of two drinks laced with drugs and piss.
There was a bounty for the guys too – a free drink for each item of clothing they took from a bitch and handed in at the bar. Girls could buy their clothes back from the bar staff at inflated prices but often they were too drunk and drugged to manage.
Most of this clothing-hunting happened on the dance floor. The dance space was dark and tightly packed and crowd barricades were placed to ensure only one exit. Once a bitch went onto the dance floor, she was pressed between multiple people, her body forced to grind up against others, often with no way back to the entry.
Men would take advantage of this. A girl on the dance floor could expect to have her tits groped and painfully squeezed, her ass slapped and explored, and her hair pulled. In the dark she rarely knew who was even doing it, but was unable to move away.
Then hands would lift her skirt to expose her cunt, and fingers would part her cunt lips and begin to explore. A thumb would probe her anus. Her tits would be pulled out of her top.
Then one by one any strings or zips or buttons on her clothes would be undone and she would find herself being undressed. She would find herself bare-titted or bare-cunted in public as smug men pawned her clothes for drinks.
If she was really unlucky someone might rape her right there on the dance floor, a stiff cock sliding into her twat from behind as she tried to cover her humiliation.
Bitches caught obviously nude on premises never got a chance to buy back their clothes – they were given one last roofied drink then ejected naked onto the street. This wasn’t a strip club. Ejections of this kind were loudly announced on the street, to draw the attention of anyone outside, including passers-by and people queuing to get in. A girl who found herself nude on the street could expect that many people would take photos of her.
The police also liked to regularly pass by the Nymph Bar for this reason. They loved to arrest humiliated nude girls for public exposure. They’d take them back to the police station in a caged vehicle, and then either leave them naked in the public waiting room, handcuffed to a chair, until they had a chance to “process their paperwork” hours later, while criminals and members of the public laughed and leered at them.
Or else they’d hint that the girl’s clothing and legal problems could be fixed very quickly if only she’d open her mouth for a police officer’s cock, and spread her legs for another. Or if she was drugged and drunk enough, they’d just rape her, whether she agreed or not. The next morning, the girl would be sure that whatever happened was her own fault, thanks to the roofie.
Despite all of this, all that stupid young women could think was that the Nymph Bar was the place to be. It was where pretty girls went, so of course they had to go there. It was where pretty girls got attention from boys – even if that sometimes led to embarrassing situations. If you weren’t at the Nymph Bar, it was probably because the Nymph Bar wouldn’t let you in, and if the Nymph Bar didn’t let you in it was because you were ugly.
The real wins, though, came from the phones that Dale’s pickpockets harvested. Dale had a skilled friend who could break the security on these phones and download the contents. He would install malware on the phones that let them be accessed remotely, and then he would call the girls and invite them to come recover the phones they had “lost” at the bar.
Every young woman occasionally does slutty things; takes slutty photos; visits slutty websites. Every young woman has a secret that she would rather die than reveal. And in many, many cases those secrets were hidden on the women’s phones. Between the download of the phone’s contents, and the ability to track her future activity, the Nymph Bar was able to build an incredibly trove of embarrassing female facts.
They collected nude selfies that girls had sent to lovers. They collected surreptitious purchases of pregnancy tests and visits to Ob/Gyns. They took notes on lesbians who weren’t out of the closet. They made lists of girls who were cheating on husbands or boyfriends. They found out who had addictions, who had committed crimes, and who was embezzling from their workplaces.
And then they acted on it.
Several times a day Dale would meet with a cute young thing in his office, and explain to her how he was going to destroy her life. He let Chelsey watch, sitting in a corner, because he knew it turned her on to see a pretty girl cry as she learned what was about to happen to her.
He would tell the girl that keeping her secret was simple. She just had to do a simple thing for him. She had to find one of her pretty friends, and drug her with a drug her gave her, and then bring the friend to him.
The girl would know – or think she knew – what was going to happen. Obviously Dale was going to rape her friend. But her friend would be unconscious. She would never know. And so, inevitably, the girls would do it, and a couple of days later Dale would be looking at a guilty-looking girl offering him one of her pretty unconscious friends.
Dale would have the girl undress her friend. At this point she still thought she was preparing the girl for Dale to rape – and still, she would do it, pulling off her friend’s clothes until the unconscious girl was nude.
Then Dale would tell the girl he was blackmailing to strip. At this point she would become uncomfortable, and Dale would remind her that she had just drugged a girl and undressed her, and that Dale had her doing that on camera. So she would strip.
And then Dale would tell her to rape her friend.
Nothing too extreme. Just rub her tits against her friend’s face. Kneel between her friend’s legs and lick her pussy for a bit. The important thing was that Dale had it on camera – footage of the girl raping an unconscious woman.
Because whatever secret he originally had on the girl, this was always so much worse. It could send the girl to prison. And she would do anything to protect herself.
Once Dale had what he needed, he would take his pick of the original girl or her sleeping friend, and rape her. He would let Chelsey have the other one. Chelsey liked the conscious girls best because they struggled and cried.
They would make sure the unconscious girl got home afterwards, never knowing what had happened to her. And then they would tell the original girl the *real* price of keeping her secret.
Five tasks. Five simple tasks, that the girl had to complete within three months. If she completed them, they were done with her. And Dale really meant that – because if the girl completed the tasks, her life was sufficiently ruined for his purposes.
Task one: Fuck a family member and film it. Any family member would do – father, brother, mother, sister. If it was a guy, she needed to get his cock into her cunt. If it was a woman, she needed to both lick the woman’s cunt and have the woman lick hers.
Task two: Drop out of any current education or employment and work as a free volunteer at the office of a wildly misogynist politician or lobby group for the three months.
Task three: Find sufficient information on three other attractive girls that Dale would be able to blackmail them.
Task four: Get a breast enhancement that took her up to at least an F cup.
Task five: Get pregnant.
And through it all, she had a publicity task. She had to bring her friends to the Nymph Bar. She needed to party at the Nymph at least twice a week, and bring at least three girls with her each time. She had to tell people the Nymph Bar was the best. She had to make fun of other girls who weren’t partying at the Nymph. They would often tell the girl about the piss and the drugs and the roofies, so that she could sit with her friends knowing that she was drinking piss and feeding them piss, knowing that she was helping them get raped.
It was good for girls to be in that position, Dale thought. And Chelsey agreed.
Every now and again, Dale’s web would catch a very special woman – one who was rich, or influential. He would end up with footage of a businesswoman or a politician or an influencer raping another girl. For these women, Dale would offer a different way out of their predicament.
They would still have to fuck a family member. But he would let them defer their pregnancy, their breast enhancement and their career self-destruction.
Instead, they would have to pay him money, every month, for the rest of their lives. Dale would decide how much money based on the bitch’s capacity to pay, but it could be anywhere from $4,000 a month up to $30,000. He didn’t care how they got it. He didn’t care if they committed crimes to get it. That was their problem.
And they would have to bring him a fresh girl to enslave every three months, forever. He typically demanded that the girls delivered in the first year include a female family member, and someone who they had been friends with for at least five years, just to help them understand that there was nothing they wouldn’t betray to keep her secret.
And they would have to use their platform to advance Dale’s aims. Businesswomen were encouraged to implement sexist HR policies, and channel their investments out of companies run by or employing women and into ones that were known to be sexist and misogynist. Politicians were instructed to vote how Dale told them to vote. Influencers encouraged their followers to be brainless little sextoys (and attend the Nymph Bar as soon as possible!).
Before long, Dale was rich, and influential, and with wealth and influence came exemptions from the law. Dale had never worried much about the police interfering with the Nymph Bar, but he soon reached a point where he could be certain that not only would the police never interfere in his business, but that they would gang-rape any woman who complained about him.
He started a new program, and he let Chelsey help. Chelsey and a bunch of the blackmailed girls would drive a van around the streets, spot hot-looking girls, and abduct them. They would drag these girls back to the Nymph Bar, where they would be roofied and then gang-raped on stage by a combination of male patrons and bar girls. The rest of the staff would lead the crowd in cheers and laughter.
There was nothing so educational for a woman, Dale said, as the moment she realised she would laugh at another girl being raped in order to remain popular with her friends. It helped her to understand that when *she* was raped, that nobody would help her. They would only laugh, and that would be exactly what she deserved.
As Chelsey looked around the Nymph Bar each night, at the crowd of drunk slutty girls laughing and cheering at the violent rape of a fellow women, she reflected again on how correct Dale was to do this to her gender, to degrade and violate women like her in this way. As she pissed in a glass of vodka and handed it to an unsuspecting girl to drink, she nodded with appreciation at how visionary Dale’s entire scheme was.
“How much is this drink?” asked the pretty blonde girl who Chelsey had passed the drink to.
“Say ‘humans don’t have cunts’,” said Chelsey, “and it’s half price.”
“Humans don’t have cunts!” giggled the girl.
“Flash your tits as well, and it’s a freebie,” added Chelsey.
The girl giggled and lifted her top to expose her excellent tits, and then took a long drink of her piss-and-vodka.
“This tastes good!” she said.
“I know,” said Chelsey. “I’m going to rape you later tonight.”
“Sorry?” said the girl. “I didn’t hear that.”
“I said I made the drink just right,” said Chelsey.
“Oh,” said the girl.
Chelsey watched her walk away from the bar, and fantasised about kissing the girl’s tears away as she cried from being raped by Dale.
The best thing about the Nymph Bar, she thought, was the way that it eventually made fantasies come true.
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